


Yellow Paint

by combatbaby



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combatbaby/pseuds/combatbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble about Bee and his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Paint

It felt as if the berth had fallen out from under him and he woke with a start. The same start you’d expect an impact with the ground would feel after a lengthy fall; slamming a dreamer into consciousness violently and without mercy. Bumblebee let out a distressed buzz as he realized where he was, optics flaring and darting about the small grey room.

It was fine, he was fine. This was his berth, these were his grey walls. Primus he hated these walls. They were the same hue as the cell he had been in, and woken up to for so many cycles that he’d lost track.

How long ago had that been? And he was still waking with a start in the dark from a dream. Still pawing at his face and trying to speak real words when he woke just to check. Why were the dreams so damn real?

Bumblebee blinked his optics trying to gain reality again; flexed his servos in front of his face. Yes, this was real. There was no problem, there was no real pain just imagination. He rolled over, frustrated in himself. That was over long ago so why couldn’t it just end. Bee’s arms wrapped around him, yes that helped; made him feel in control again.

He whirred angrily knowing that was the last of the recharge he’d be getting that night. Pedes sweeping off the berth and onto the floor. That nice solid floor. Bee cradled his head, elbows on his knees looking down on that solid floor.

Bee vented a bit, shaking his head. This had to end. It couldn’t last forever. No, these dreams and memories would go. He had to believe it; there was no other option. Hope was all that kept him trying to recharge properly to begin with. He knew most nights weren’t like this and that shadow that came over the back of his mind when he came for rest was most nights pushed aside. It was fear. Fear of a dream, something that wasn’t real and couldn’t hurt him anymore than it had already.

Shame. Wasn’t he the one Optimus called brave? Not now, rocking softly, trying to erase the pain. No, he was afraid of recharge. Afraid of those damn grey walls that were the perfect hue. He was not brave. He just did what he had too at the time to get through, there was no heroism in surviving. It was a shame he’d learned to hide well behind friendly sounds and little pranks. Things that kept his mask safe. Things that kept him as whole as he could be.

When the morning came he’d ask Optimus for some paint.


End file.
